


In Which Michael Adopts an Eldritch Cricket

by TheEnglishLetterCIsObsolete



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: 2 months, Gen, I make no promises about whether this is a fix it, Monster!Jon, Time Travel, but also like, jon is 8, michael is trying, on account of his memory is shot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:27:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27228829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEnglishLetterCIsObsolete/pseuds/TheEnglishLetterCIsObsolete
Summary: Said cricket may have once answered to the name Jon, but it has been an immeasurable amount of time since then.
Relationships: Michael Shelley & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 14
Kudos: 93





	In Which Michael Adopts an Eldritch Cricket

Michael is alone in the archives. He knows this because the thing that lives there is staring at him. You’d think there would be other ways to tell, but the walls down there are surprisingly dense. Sarah could easily be eating a late lunch in the breakroom, Gerturde could be recording in her office, Emma could be looking for something in the stacks, and he wouldn’t be able to tell.

Except that the thing is watching him. It only watches _him_ when there’s no else around to look at. Michael has had quite a lot of time to wonder why, and has come up with the theory that it simply doesn’t like being watched back. The others in the archives, and even the statement givers that occasionally come down there seem somehow completely oblivious to its existence.

(he isn’t crazy. He knows he isn’t crazy. He’s had… experience with this sort of thing.)

In any case, the thing is watching Michael, and he is alone. Perhaps he should be frightened. Fortunately (or not), for him, he ran out of fear about two weeks ago when he found it eating his novelty paperclips. Since then, he’s mostly been trying to determine if it’s actually a threat. 

Here is what Michael knows about the thing:

\- it watches

\- it eats paperclips(?)

\- it has been in the archives for about two months

\- it does not leave the archives

\- it has a physical form (scratch marks and stuff)

\- it doesn’t like to be seen

\- for the most part, it can’t be seen

\- it hides in supernaturally dark shadows

“Hello?” Michael decides to say. The thing does not respond. 

“Why are you here?” Michael tries again. The thing blinks, all out of sync. Michael blinks along with it, correctly. It still does not respond. 

“I, ah, alright then,” Michael mutters to himself. He moves onto his actual plan: turning on the flashlight he keeps on his desk and shining it directly into the absurdly shadowy corner of the ceiling the thing is hiding in. 

It whines like broken machinery, and its irises swallow up its pupils entirely, so that its eyes are solid green. For a split-second Michael can see its wings (like moth wings), and then it drops from the ceiling and- å̷ͅṅ̵̗d̴͙̔,̸̣̓ ̷̳ǘ̷̳̖̚ĥ̴̲̜̞͒̈́,̴̦̳̫̑~̸̛̮̲̗͔̩̪̺̖̯̻̿͒͂-̴̩̦̭̖̠̼̬͎͓̐̆̅̌͊̂̔̕͝͝-̷̩͕͔̭͕̼̿̾̾͊~̶͓̤̝̇́̈́̇̂̊͊-̵̤̟̜͓͈͈͔̈́̓̀̈́~̸͇̝͈̗̟̰̟̝̮̘̞̳͉͕̂̄̈̓͑̒͊̀͒͘

Michael is _actually_ alone in the archives, for the first time in two months. As far as he can tell, he’s not been physically injured, but whatever just happened has uncovered his secret emergency fear stash. He’s shaking again, and he can’t quite breathe. Lovely. He presses his hands against his desk to help himself calm down, tells himself over and over that it didn’t even _hurt_ him, this is _fine_ , he just needs a new plan.

—— 

The next time Michael’s alone in the archives, the thing isn’t anywhere he can see it, but he can still feel its eyes. That’s fine, he has a better plan this time. The flashlight is still on his desk, just in case he needs to scare it off again, but this time he reaches into his bag and sets a brand new tin of tooth shaped paperclips out before him. 

“Hello?” Michael says. Just like last time. He might as well be polite after all. As before, it doesn’t respond.  
  
“I just want to talk? Can you talk?” It, rather predictably, doesn’t respond, which is unaccountably puzzling to Michael. It hasn’t responded to any of his questions, why would it respond now? Michael runs a hand through his hair, to recenter himself.

“I, uh, saw you eating(?) my paperclips. I got some more. If you’d like them. I promise I won-” He suddenly becomes aware of a soft whirring noise, and finds his words are caught in his throat. It takes a few tries to continue. “I won- I- If you don’t try to hurt me, I won’t shine the light at you.” The whirring noise continues, but the thing _still_ doesn’t respond. 

“Well. They’ll be there.” Michael finally says. Then he slides the paperclips to the corner of his desk and goes back to his work: sorting through a box of statements labelled 40-238 FB. It’s rather tedious work, of the kind that’s often passed to him, likely due to his status as the youngest and _newest_ assistant. Right now, he’s to pull all statements regarding war for the others to re-sort. Apparently Gertrude wants to try out a _subject_ based organization system rather than the traditional chronological system. This may not be the most efficient way of doing that but, well, she deserves some slack. She’s been in that position for an awfully long time now. 

The thing’s unrelenting stare pressing tangibly against his skin always makes work more difficult, but Michael’s used to powering through at this point. It’s his anticipation of the moment it accepts his offer that makes things impossible. He can’t help but glance around every few seconds for any sign of movement, and he’s having trouble even just _skimming_ the statements. 

Fifteen minutes pass like a stranger walking just close enough to your speed that they linger at your side awkwardly for a while. 

Thirty minutes pass like an ant wandering alone, with no chemical trial to follow. 

An hour passes like a sailboat on a windless day. 

Finally Michael hears the scrabbling of its claws and turns to look at it. This is a̶͉͛ m̵̗̙̬̀̾͊ͅi̴̬͚͊̈́̏s̷̹̥̙͌ṯ̴̌ā̷̬̬͔͆͐̚k̷̯̦̎̇͗̎̇ĕ̴̫̈́̊̐͒̍-̸̛̝̘̳͉̫͈̫̈́͑̎͑͗͐ͅ-̸͈͖̭̦͖̱̻̻̳̯̊̍̌̓̾̓̔͜-̸͔̯̰͓̲̃͊̇͝~̸̢̧͙͈̰̹̺̺̜̲̆̉͛̂̋͆̈́ͅͅ-̴̮̝̣͕̼͈̻̘̼̬̊͆͗͑̓̕

He opens his eyes to a very concerned looking Sarah. Oh dear. He hadn’t checked if he’d lost time last time. Perhaps he should’ve. 

“Oh, there you are,” she says, “are you alright?”

“I’m, I’m fine. Just a migraine.” he responds. He doesn’t know what it looks like from the outside, so he can’t know that the explanation fits, but, he can hope. She seems to accept it, in any case.

“Ah. Alright then. Just let me know if you need anything. I have some advil in my desk.”

“Thank you. I’m mostly fine now, though.” The fear abated almost immediately when he saw Sarah, and what’s left can probably be calmed by his work. Speaking of, he hands Sarah he very few files he’s managed to pick. “Here are some of the, the war statements I’ve found. It’s not many but, well, this box doesn’t have a ton of them, it seems. Hopefully,” he looks at the other boxes stacked up beside his desk, and finds their labels difficult to summarize, “these next boxes will have more.”

Sarah nods indulgently at him and takes the meagre stack back to her desk. Michael glances at the clock, only to realize that this is the first time he’s done so all day, and it is therefore _quite_ useless in determining how long he was out.

—— 

The paperclips are gone the next day.

—— 

Michael is “alone” again. The thing is watching from a visible corner this time. Michael has given up on getting it to speak, but he has _not_ , given up on figuring out what it wants. Other than paperclips. He stares at it. It stares at him. He places one (1) cat-shaped paperclip on his desk, and waits. It blinks very slowly at him, but doesn’t move. 

“I know you want it,” Michael says, “Just, come here. I won’t hurt you.” 

It once again, blinks, very deliberately. When Michael fails to respond, it s̶̩̎h̷͉͘ì̵̞f̸̧̀t̴̨s̶͕̐, and he’s hit by a wave of nausea at the not-movement. He reflexively covers his face, and when he recovers, the thing is sitting right in front of him, still draped in its improbable shadows. Its eyes are narrowed and that whirring sound is back. Michael realizes it’s the sound of a tape recorder running, but he doesn’t bother looking for the source. It’s pretty clear what the source is.

“I see. So that, that happens whenever you move, then?” He feels rather certain he’s correct about that. Rather more, he realizes, than right before he asked the question. Oh. hmm.

“Are you telepathic?” he asks. That sounds about right. And *that* seems like an answer. It’s actually a bit frightening how easy it is to mistake for his own thoughts, _but_ , he reminds himself, he’s fresh out of fear right now. He just needs to figure this out. The whirring is getting louder.

“O-okay then. I guess I didn’t catch your answer last time, so I’ll ask again, why are you here?” This question is, right? But seeing as it’s not a yes or no question that doesn’t make much sense. Maybe he was mistaken and they aren’t communicating at all. He needs another question. 

“Wh- what’s your- or I suppose, do you have a name?” He feels rather silly asking that question. Why _would_ it- Oh. That’s an answer. Okay, so the answer to ‘why are you here’ is correctness. And it doesn’t have a name. Lovely. There’s something else, behind the whirring.

Michael clearly needs to cut to the chase here. “Are you planning to hurt me or anyone else?” That’s a no. It isn’t. Michael drops his head into his hands in relief. It could be lying, he supposes, but, it doesn’t feel like something that lies. Whatever that means. 

He flinches as something hits his nose and falls to the desk between his elbows. The paperclip, only slightly gnawed on. He looks back up at the thing and its Eyes are all wide open and his hea̸̦̾d̵̪̋ ̸͕͋f̸̯̔i̵̘̕ļ̵̄l̷̯͋s̸̜̿ ̸̢̎u̵̔͜p̴͕͂ ̷͉͔͐ŵ̸̢̭͎i̸̥͙̿̕͜͝t̵̛̖͚̜͂h̷̫̒͌͝ ̴̨̥͔͝š̶̺̫͕͕t̴̮̍a̵̛̦̗͓͓̙̾̑́̑ẗ̸͇́́î̸̡̮̼̟̂̾c̸̳͓̋̇̅̆-̴̙̘̯͈̮̌~̵̛̥̅́̆̇͑̉̓̕ 

  
  


H̶̥̺̋̒̿͊ę̸̛̬̙̮̤̦̹̟̹̥̙́̓̀̏̅̌̒͌̐̄̾̓̃̅̌͘ ̴͉̠̤̜͙͚̫̞̮͇͙̮͓̻͌͑̈͐̋̍̊͊̋͝͝ḧ̷̤̱̞̖̬̗̅͗̃̆̍̋̾͗͂̏͜â̴̻̰͙̫͖͊̎̈́̓͑̊̈̑̿͘s̵̡̲͙͎̞̭͆͋͛̇̃̈́͋͊͛̏͛̌̍̊͘ ̴̡̛̩̰̲̼̭̥̫̪͙̦͑̽͑a̷̪̙̮̓̏̂͐̓ ̸̛̹͙̣̹͌̋̽͗̇͒̾̈́̆̌̆̍͂ŝ̵̨̛͈̮̖̰̱̦̼̰̜̦͕̣͓͖͊͋t̸͕͙̤̙̝̹͕̔̈͊͌̄͋̈̿͘͠o̸̲͕̭͛̐͆͝ŗ̴͎̹̹̗̤̗͖̟̳͓̹̰̪͖͈̭̔̈́͌͑̃̊̈́̾͝͠ÿ̴̙̻́͌̒̈́̑͌̂̆͝͝.̸̢̛̖̃̃̓͌́̂̅̃̈́̿͒͝͠ ̴̙̰̾Ḩ̸̡̭̼̜͙̜̝͔̝̏͆̋̐͗̎͜͠ȅ̷̯̖͉̹̯̲̰͓͕͍̘̗̠̔̅̽̒͘ͅ ̵̡̩̳͙͓̳̲͎̤̖̫̒͐̿̕ṋ̸̛̼̈́̋̀͋͋̕̚ę̴̨̢̩͕̳̝͇̞͚͖͕͕͖͉͇͔̒̌͌̓̏͝e̸̦̦͍̫͕͉̍̓̈́̃̄̇̿͑̾̅͛̓̈͘͠͝ḑ̶͉̬̗̺̙̰̟̤̯̹͂̽̍̓̒͂̍͋̇̏̔̉̆͘̚͜͝ͅͅs̶̬̆ ̴̯͇̻͉̯̥̰̟̙̰̪̞̝̠̣̦̒͆̾͑̔͊̆̇̽͆͌ͅt̵̢̢̢̛̰̻̲̻͋̒͊̒͋̚͠ö̶͖̩̣̗̩́͠ ̷̧̘̹̲̭̲̲͚̺̝̍̆͊̓̚̚ͅt̵̜͍͙͕͔͓̥̘̼̠̩͕̽̍̑̎̕͝͝͝e̸̻̣͇͖̳̻̋̾͒̿͑̈́̐̊͂̇̓͘ļ̴̢̨̘̼̭̤̘̿̓̿͆̑́̕͝ľ̶̩̥̊̈́̇̑̆͗̅̈̊̓ ̸̧̺̣͓̖͓̬̖̓͗͐̓͠i̴̖͂͌͌̀͆͆̑̆̈́̚͜ṭ̴̨̼̲̱̦̼̳̓̄̋̉̍͂̄̐͗̑͘̚͝.̴͉̺͍̯̱͚̃̊̃̾̄̓͝ ̸̡̳̥̺̻̮͈͎͍̱̪̈́̎́͌̓͑͌̓̈́͑̕͜H̷̢̗̦̯̓̆͊̊̎͐̈̇̽̔̈̓͑̚͘ͅę̷̩̖̰̘̥̱͎̓͜͝ͅ ̵̰̼̝͊̿̄̅͊̑͊̋͗̆̃̿͝ḋ̵͈͙̤͕̬̱̲͔͔̣̱͑͜o̵̺̳̲̝̽̐͗̉e̸̺̬̝͍̼̙̙̅̑̌̄̌͂͒͋̔̀͌̓̊̏̑͘͠ͅs̵̻͎̘̦̙̙̹̞̗͍̺̻̈́͑͛̌̓̿͛̿͑͝͝ͅ.̵̢̨̨̥͕̳͔̩̼̥͕̅̔̈̃̍̾͑̍͋̕̚̕͘

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to the depths of my brain. This here is the "wow aren't monsters neat" room, next up we will be taking a closer look at the "I love xenopsychology" corner, so get ready for that :).
> 
> My tumblr url is viviantimmet.tumblr.com, if you want to talk, and my tag for this fic is "dad!michael au".
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> glitch text:  
> \- and, uh,  
> \- a mistake  
> \- shifts  
> \- head fills up with static  
> \- he has a story. he needs to tell it. he does.


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